Summit Chase td-8

by Warren Murphy

  "How do we insure this Asiphar's loyalty?"

  Nemeroff noted the "we," and with a faint smile turned to the tiny Korean.

  "If you will look at the screen up over the elevator door, gentlemen. Behind you, Mr. Hee." Nemeroff leaned forward, pressed a control button imbedded hi the wood of the table, causing a plywood section of the wall over the elevator door to slide back revealing a six-foot-square television screen.

  Men pushed their chairs back from the table, so they could swing their bodies around and look at the screen.

  Nemeroff pressed another button. Immediately, the sound of a voice was heard. "Oh, do it. Do it some more." It was a man's voice, thick and guttural, and it was pleading. Then the screen lightened into a picture of

  Asiphar, his fat body a study in black against the white sheets, his body being violated by a fair-skinned blonde girl armed with a hand vibrator. They were naked.

  Nemeroff let it run for thirty seconds, then turned down the sound, but let the picture continue.

  He cleared his throat and eyes turned back to him.

  "That is your soon-to-be-President Asiphar," he said coldly. "He is a swine. He will do anything for the promise of a woman."

  Dong Hee spoke again. His English was precise and delicate, as were his features. "That is so, Baron, I am sure. But when he is president, what guarantee will we have that… satisfying his aberrations will still be enough?" As he spoke, his right side and shoulder flickered with the bluish colour from the TV screen. "After all, as president, he should be able to make his choice of women. He will have wealth, position. Will he really need us to be his pimps?"

  The others had been watching Hee with interest. Now they turned to Nemeroff for his answer.

  "You make a very good point, Mr. Hee." As he looked around the room, he saw a puzzled look on Fabio's face. "True enough, as president of Scambia, Asiphar would have certain power. But as for wealth? Whatever his dreams are, they will not be realized.

  "For the last five weeks, a crew of workmen has been laying a sewer next to the wall of the east wing of the Scambian presidential palace. They are no ordinary sewer workmen; they are my men.

  "When President Dashiti is assassinated, at that very moment, the national treasury of Scambia will be removed from its vaults, in the east wing of the palace. Our Asiphar will find that he is the head of a country without funds even to pay for its president's funeral. He will be on an allowance. From us."

  There were murmurs of approval around the table. Hee nodded his head to Nemeroff in satisfaction. Fabio remembered what he wanted to ask:

  "What about PJ Kenny? Why is he here?"

  "I was coming to that, Mr. Fabio, because that is another guarantee of Asiphar's cooperation." Nemeroff slowly scanned the table, meeting individually as many pairs of eyes as he could, before speaking again. "Those of you who are from the United States have, I am sure, heard of Mr. PJ Kenny. Certainly, you have heard of his work. I daresay many of you from other nations have also.

  "It is my proposal to keep Mr. Kenny in Scambia as our resident manager, as it were. He will guarantee President Asiphar's cooperation, because Asiphar will be given to understand that if he steps out of line, Mr. Kenny will slit his throat. Mr. Kenny's presence will have another benefit too. I think it would have a dampening effect upon the ambitions of anyone who might try to display his entrepreneurship in Scambia." The words were soft and measured, but the meaning was blunt and hard, even to the Americans who had never heard the word entrepreneur. Anyone who stepped out of line, who tried to get cute and take over the Scambia setup, would be killed. By PJ Kenny. Who never missed.

  "Does that answer your question, Mr. Fabio?"

  Fabio grunted.

  Nemeroff added, "Mr. Kenny is in the castle right now and I expect him here momentarily. I would like to caution some of you who have seen him in the past that you will not recognize him. He has undergone plastic surgery recently, to facilitate his departure from his own country. He will not look like the man you may remember."

  "Just so he works like the man we remember."

  "He does," Nemeroff said, smiling at the underboss from Detroit. "In fact, he is awesome. That and his reputation for fairness should make him an ideal representative for us in Scambia."

  There were nods of agreement from the Americans, most of whom were clustered around the far end of the long table. Fabio was busy now watching Asiphar on the screen and had forgotten what the discussion was about. All he could think of was that blonde on the screen. She knew some tricks. He wondered if she was in the castle. He would ask Nemeroff before he left.

  "What is the financial arrangement to be?" Hee asked.

  "I was coming to that. Here, now, we represent twenty-two different countries. From the United States, there are eight major families. For the purpose of this discussion, each family will count as a country. I am asking each of you for $500,000. For your membership in our private country." He smiled, his face breaking in the big horse grin. "And for each man you send, the fee will be $25,000."

  "And what do we get out of it?," asked Pubescio from California.

  "I am sure, Mr. Pubescio, that you will understand that the $25,000 per person is what is paid to Scambia. In other words; to me, to Mr. Kenny, to President Asiphar. But what you charge for your service is, of course, up to you. I need not point out that $25,000 is a ridiculously inexpensive cost to a man fleeing for his life."

  "And what about the $500,000?" Pubescio said.

  "That gives you the right to determine who shall be permitted to go from your area to Scambia. I think you quickly see that that power carries with it great monetary value. In just months, you will recover all that sum and much more, I know.

  "There are other things which may have crossed your minds also," Nemeroff said. "There will also be ways to send people to Scambia, who might meet with a terrible accident upon running into Mr. Kenny. That could be arranged."

  The American leaders looked at each other and smirked. They understood. So did Dong Hee. Soon, so did the others. Around the table heads were nodding.

  "Gentlemen, I do not wish to press you for time, but it is of the essence. Within 48 hours, our plan will be underway. I must have your answers now."

  "And suppose our answer is no?" Hee asked.

  "Then it shall be no. Nothing could be done at this late hour by anyone to thwart our plan. If any of you choose not to participate, that would be your decision. But I would then reserve the right to deal with others in your country, to try to interest them in our proposal."

  "It costs too much," Fabio said. That is what he always said at any discussion of any new idea. And then he always went along. Men at the table buzzed, discussing the idea with their neighbours.

  Nemeroff had them; he knew it. He had primed Dong Hee well and Hee had handled his role perfectly, firing the questions with just the right degree of animosity, but allowing Nemeroff to calmly break down the resistance that was every one's natural posture.

  Hee stood. "Baron," he said. "It will be a pleasure to join with you."

  Nemeroff cocked an ear. He heard the faint whoosh of the elevator.

  "Thank you, Mr. Hee. Gentlemen, I believe Mr. Kenny is coming. Perhaps some of you would like to meet our resident manager."

  He came from the end of the table and walked toward the elevator door, separated from the main room by a simple mahogany panel.

  The elevator door opened and the man known as PJ Kenny stepped out.

  "Mr. Kenny," Nemeroff said. "There are gentlemen here who would like to meet you."

  "I've brought company," Remo said. Eyes at the table turned toward the elevator, and strained to get a look at the new arrivals, and Chiun and Maggie stepped out of the elevator after Remo.

  "I thought you were going to dispose of them," Nemeroff said.

  "You thought wrong," Remo said coldly, stepping from behind the mahogany panel and standing next to Nemeroff, under the television pictures of Asiphar and his woman, cas
ually looking around the conference room, meeting the faces that stared back at him intently.

  Nemeroff put a hand on Remo's shoulder and hissed into his ear: "What's wrong with you, Mr. Kenny? The whole plan's ready to go."

  "Two mistakes, Baron," Remo said. "First, I'm not P. J. Kenny; I'm Remo Williams. And second, the plan's not ready to go; you are."

  He took another step into the room, and Chiun stepped out from behind the mahogany panel. Almost as if by magnetism, his eyes were drawn to those of Dong Hee, who was turned in his seat, casually watching the scene at the elevator door.

  He tensed when he saw the old Oriental in the blue robes.

  "Who is that man?" he said to Nemeroff.

  Nemeroff looked at Chiun, who stepped closer to Hee. "I am the Master of Sinanju," Chiun said.

  Hee screamed. The sound unleashed the room into action.

  Hee stood and tried to run. Men scrambled to their feet, their hands moving with practiced ease toward guns under their jackets. Chiun seemed to float in the air and then he was atop the conference table. His blue robes flowed around him, angelically, but his face was that of an angel of death and he roared, in a hollow, doom filled voice: "Despoilers of men and jackals of crime, your end is here. It is the hour of the cat."

  Hee screamed again. He was still trying to get away from the press of men in chairs, to escape the legend he had heard of all his life, and then his head dropped limply to his side, as a stroke from the old man's hand crushed his neck.

  Chiun swirled along the table like a dervish. Men scattered; more drew guns; shots were fired, and through them all, now on the table, then on the floor, raced Chiun, the Master of Sinanju.

  Remo took Maggie's arm and pulled her into the room next to him, as he leaned casually against the wall.

  "Watch him," he said. "He's really good." He really was, too, Remo thought. Where had he ever gotten the idea that Chiun had grown old?

  Chiun moved faster now, faster than bullets, faster than men's hands. Men converged on him and grasped only each other as he was not there, and then his hands and feet were there and bodies hit the floor.

  Knives appeared but were wrested from their holders' hands, only to reinsert themselves in their owners' stomachs. Pencils and pens from the table became deadly missiles finding their marks in throats and eyes. One pen hit the mahogany panel next to Remo. It went all the way through the inch-thick hardwood, its point protruding through the other side.

  "Hey, Chiun," Remo called, "watch that." To Maggie, he said, "He's good, right? Wait until he warms up." Maggie could only watch in stunned horror. It was like a butcher shop.

  Bodies were piled, now. Men no longer fought for the chance to get at the old man. They came now for the door. But between them and the elevator door stood Remo Williams and there began another pile of bodies.

  And then there were no more men standing. Only Remo and Chiun and Maggie who surveyed the carnage of the conference room. It looked like a Wall Street version of the St. Valentine's Day massacre.

  "Not too good, Chiun," Remo said. "I was watching. You took two strokes on that big goon from Detroit. And you missed the target completely with this pen." He pointed to the pen in the mahogany panel. "You know what a pen like that costs?" he said. "And now it's not even good for writing or anything."

  "I am contrite," Chiun said, his hands folded inside the sleeves of his robe.

  "Yep," Remo said, "and your elbow was crooked again. Flying up there like Jack Nicklaus on the backswing. How many times do I have to tell you you're never going to amount to anything if you don't keep the elbow close to your side? Can't you learn anything?"

  "Please tell me who you are," Maggie suddenly pleaded.

  "It's best you don't know," Remo said. "But we're from America. And our assignment was the same as yours. Break this up."

  "And you are not PJ Kenny?"

  "No. I killed him before I got here." He interrupted himself as he saw a ghostly flicker in the highly polished wood of the wall across the room. He stepped into the room and looked up over his head. "Hey, look, the movie's on. Let's watch." He watched for a second, and said, "On second thought, Maggie, you better not watch."

  He looked around the room. "Now let's see where Nemeroff is."

  He walked toward the head of the table and turned a body over with his toe, then looked up, annoyed. "Chiun, is he over there?"

  "No," Chiun said.

  "Maggie. You got him by you?"

  She forced herself to look at the bodies that littered the floor around her. No Nemeroff. She shook her head.

  "He escaped, Chiun. He got away," Remo said.

  "If you had been more a participant and less an observer, perhaps that might have been prevented," Chiun said.

  "There were only thirty, Chiun. I wanted to leave them for you, so I could see what you're going to do with the bodies. Now where the hell did he go?"

  There was a hard whirring sound overhead.

  "The roof," Remo said. "The helicopters. He's up there." He looked around for panels, for stairways. He saw nothing. He looked up. A helicopter was settling down on the roof, its blades cutting swaths of darkness in the room as they revolved above the glass dome.

  "How the hell do we get up there?" Remo asked.

  Chiun answered.

  First he was on the floor, then on the table, and then he was hurtling through the air, toward the dome, and he hit into it feet first. It crashed. He turned his body in air, grabbed a cross bar with his hands and pulled himself through the opening in the shattered glass.

  Some old man, Remo thought.

  He followed, springing onto the table and jumping up for a handhold on the cross bar. He hoisted himself through the break in the glass, calling over his shoulder, "Stay there, Maggie."

  Then he was on the roof, alongside Chiun. But they were too late for Nemeroff. His red helicopter was already off the roof, and then it dipped its nose and sped off toward the south toward Mozambique, toward the island nation of Scambia.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Nemeroff's second helicopter was taking off at the other end of the roof and Remo and Chiun raced toward it. They reached it just as it started to speed up its rotor, and with dives, they grabbed the right wheel struts.

  Above them, the engine roared and lugged, and tried to lift. But their weight unbalanced the craft. It lifted and dropped; lifted again and dropped.

  Above their heads, the helicopter window opened. The co-pilot made his first and last mistake. He reached out, and tried to throw a punch at Chiun. Chiun reached up with a toe, then the co-pilot was coming through the window. He hit the stone covered roof and lay in a personal heap.

  Remo moved up the struts and slid in through the window. A moment later, the pilot came out the same window. Seconds later, the craft sat down heavily on its haunches and the rotor stopped as Remo cut the engines.

  The door opened and Remo jumped out onto the roof. His eyes joined Chiun's in looking forward to the horizon toward which the red helicopter of Baron Nemeroff was speeding.

  "Must we pursue?" Chiun said.

  "Yes."

  "Can you fly this craft?"

  "No," Remo said. "Can you?"

  "No. But if I were a white man I would be able to use a white man's tools."

  They heard behind them the sound of a motor and they turned. As they watched, a section of roof lifted up and then a small screened elevator rose onto their level. In it was Maggie.

  As she stepped out, she said: "He had a secret door. I found it. Where is he?"

  Remo pointed to the helicopter, now far away in the distance.

  "Well, why don't we follow him?"

  "I can't fly this damn thing."

  "Get in," she said. "I can."

  "I always knew there was something about you limey women that I liked," Remo said.

  He hopped up into the plane. Maggie clambered up on her side and Chiun slid in alongside Remo, sitting between and behind Maggie and Remo, watching.
<
br />   "How does this thing fly?" he asked, as Maggie started the engines and they kicked on with a whooshing sound.

  He sounded worried.

  "C'mon, Chiun, you never saw a helicopter before?" Remo asked.

  "I have seen many of them. But I have never been in one and therefore did not examine the problem closely. How does this thing fly without wings?"

  "Faith," Remo said. "Blind faith holds it up."

  "If body gas from passengers with eating problems would hold it up, we would have no trouble," Chiun said.

  Then the craft was off the roof, hovering, and expertly Maggie worked the stick, dipping its nose. Then with a powerful swish, it began moving forward, climbing, gaining speed and altitude, following on the trail of Baron Nemeroff.

  "Why must we chase him?" Chiun said. "Why don't we just land somewhere and call Smith?"

  "Because if we don't stop him, hell go through with his plan anyway to assassinate the President. We've got to stop that."

  "Why must we always get involved with other people's problems?" Chiun said. "I think we should sit down somewhere and calmly consider the prospects."

  "Chiun, be quiet," Remo said. "You're here now and we're flying to Scambia. We'll be there in just a few minutes so don't worry about it." And to Maggie, he said: "You're pretty good at this. Her Majesty teaches you agents everything."

  "Not at all," she shouted over the roar of the blades. "Private lessons."

  "Thank heavens for resourceful Englishwomen," Remo said.

  "Amen," she said.

  "Amen," Chiun said. "Yes. Amen. But keep praying."

  Slowly they began to gain on the red helicopter ahead of them. It had been a small dot in the sky, but now the dot was growing bigger, imperceptibly if one watched it steadily, but clearly visible if one looked only sporadically. They were gaining.

  "Keep up the good work, Maggie," Remo said. "When we go back to the hotel, I'll do you an extra good turn."

  "Sorry, Yank," she said. "I'm in mourning for PJ Kenny, the only man I ever loved."